


Immaculately Planned, Imperfectly Executed

by Gay_as_fuck



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blink and you'll miss it, Cannibalism, Character Study, Death Wish, Drabble, Evil Plans, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, Lies, Minor Violence, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pride, evil pov character, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gay_as_fuck/pseuds/Gay_as_fuck
Summary: The official story of Fuhrer-King Bradley’s past is a perfect lie, a noble one even if he believed in such things. Designed perfectly to show the exact kind of man the country needed. He couldn’t have planned it better if he tried.He's heard it said that the best lies have some elements of truth. They must never have met Father or the whipsmart men under him.





	Immaculately Planned, Imperfectly Executed

**Author's Note:**

> I know his name is "king bradley" but it's so fucking ridiculous that I wanted the much more cool sounding name of "fuhrer-king" 
> 
> Anyways this wierdo is kinda cool & I really have no idea what this is. 
> 
> Mosquito Repellent by the mountain goats is the song for this fic, even tho the title doesn't come from that. Just the line "I hope the bad guys win, I hope the good guys get their skulls smashed in."

The official story of Fuhrer-King Bradley’s past is a perfect lie, a noble one even if he believed in such things. Designed perfectly to show the exact kind of man the country needed. He couldn’t have planned it better if he tried. 

The story is that of a child chasing the sun. Born to a well respected small-town family, just rich enough as not to be revolutionary. He peppers in “facts” from his childhood in interviews and press releases, just to cement the lie. 

His mother was sweet and his father steady. The perfect family who were always willing to help those not as well off. If he pokes a few holes in the last administration by doing so, well, it only serves to make his stronger. 

Someone feeds the journalists their questions, and he is more than happy to respond. 

A moment from one of the more recent conferences: 

He’s standing at a raised podium while all but his personal guards are sitting. Not forced to of course, but they always arrive early and what good host doesn’t prepare seats. His guards, done up in the regular Amestrian uniform with a special gold cord to show their true allegiance. The guards stand at the back of the room near the door and about ten steps behind him. It’s an immaculate setup, to show the power of his army without seeming paranoid. 

It’s all traditional if only Father had made the man who designed it immortal. It would be an illuminating experience to have a conversation with the man who planned it all out. Perhaps he’d ask him what he thought of the sword, ever present at his side during each briefing. 

That was his personal touch, to show real steel. Never unsheathed and never out of line but there, clear enough for anyone to see. 

“What inspired this shift away from foreign policy?” One of the reporters asks, holding its pen ready for notes. He smiles, his eyes crinkling in laughter lines. He needs to stop thinking of them as “it” or he might slip up one day. Not that he ever does, of course, Father blessed him with a sharp mind. 

“Amestris is the defining country of our world. We have already made it clear to the world, but it is time to take care of our citizens to a greater extent. Despite the low rate of poverty and joblessness, there are still people who never had the chance to grow up just as I did, surrounded by love.” He smiles at the end, putting the last nail in the coffin. 

He attends those briefings not out of any respect or love for the fragile creatures that go about their daily lives. He finds them amusing, to see something take the bait. Perhaps he should fish more instead of hunt. No, that might be a sign of weakness the country would be all too eager to pounce on. 

He was fighting an animal as well, one he had corned and under control. It wriggled and writhed yet remained firmly under his control- and Father’s of course. 

There was a reason the alchemists were called the dogs of the Military, they helped keep the foxes and rabbits in line. Some of them were growing dim with the years yet he kept them on anyway, showing that he was kind. To those who simply could not function anymore, there was retirement, an honorable discharge with a hearty pension to boot. 

To the country, he was a hard man with a heart of gold, steady and undeniably caring. A father to the country who kept everyone safe. The kind of good, wholesome man who brings the dog out back to shoot it. Before serving it for dinner the next night, everyone none the wiser. 

There were children to feed and a boy in the army. When Edward had joined there had been a great amount of backlash, what kind of king lets children die on the front lines. The speech he had given in response to that was one of the best he’d given. 

Fifteen minutes of peacetime and the glory of their country. “Who am I to deny a man to serve his country? To prevent him from learning how to defend himself and those he holds dear.” He had convinced almost the entire country to willingly let a child die and cheer him on for it in the time it took him to get ready for the day. 

Humans were so easy to rule, it was a wonder none of them could manage the task. None of his siblings had the mind for ruling or the self-control. 

Gluttony and Sloth did not have sharp enough minds. Lust and Envy would have taken everything, and compelled the people to rebel against them. Greed would have taken so much that the economy would collapse under him. 

Pride would be a good leader with just a bit more humility, but he would never be as good a king as his “father.” Father would make a good king when his plans were completed, and Wrath could spend his days hunting down survivors. 

That would be a truly glorious day.

Father was one of the few things he cared about. Father’s plan was the goal he worked for, the reason he was king. 

It is a treasonous thought to think, but he would have been king with or without Father. He would serve no higher purpose than to lord over others of his kind but the boy he used to be was born a king. 

There was a reason he had survived. He had been stronger than all the other boys in that white room. When they taught him his name, he had listened but not forgotten who he was before. 

Every other boy had broken under the weight of glory or carved out a hole in his chest so big nothing else could fit inside. The story of his childhood is hidden in blacked-out documents and classified records. They keep whatever they chose to record locked away and encoded. 

Damn scientists, they have to make sure the world knows it was them who had a breakthrough. He would have burned the records if he could, but instead, they sit at the bottom of his desk, a grim reminder of his past. 

A past that if read could make anyone a revolutionary. The King before him had one son he wanted to lead, but first, he had to be strong. He had been a good, kind boy with Amestris’ best interests at heart. He failed to last even three days in the white room. 

So the king’s men went about finding an heir. They took sons from nobles and rich families for “training”. All but one of them failed to last a week. Despite all their supposed gifts and strength, the white room had torn them apart until there was nothing left to break. 

The boy who made it a week and a half had been the son of a poor lord near the great northern wall of Briggs. He had too many sons so he sent his youngest to the capital yet he had managed to outlast those directly from the old king’s family. 

So for their third attempt, they took boys off the street. If the boy who had suffered the most had lasted the longest, perhaps an orphan might be the king they needed. Of course, Father had his hands in that as well. There had been someone at the king’s side, whispering of legacies written in the stars and boys who would live forever. 

When they took him in along with a few hundred others he had never been a boy. He had been a feral, untrained animal starving for a purpose. He had also just been starving, and the promise of free food however shady had been too tempting to pass up. 

He found he had a taste for meat- and enjoyed it so the other boys in the white room were afraid of him. They did not give the boys food, they had to take it. He had been a monster long before he had ever been Wrath. 

One of the boys had been caught praying for release, so they split his skull and left him there. The lesson that day had been simple, there is no difference between god and the devil. If god was kind and good none of them would have been trapped in the white room. 

Despite all the gore, shit, and all the other messes dying boys leaked out, the room stayed white. The smell of blood hung just under bleach.

Even now the smell of bleach clings to him. Bleach with a hint of blood, and before that, rot and sand. Of all the boys in that place, he had been the only one to survive more than a few months. He had survived three years of that hell. 

That’s why the farm boy backstory works so well- any tics left over from the grooming can be explained away. When he brought Fullmetal a melon and a steely warning it had been as a sign the boy couldn’t understand. 

Fruit prevents illness, it’s safe food that’s hard for a street rat to get their hands on. It means, I’m watching you and I want you to do well. The strongest are born from suffering, and for once when he looks at an alchemist he does not see an ant. 

Fullmetal will be crushed underfoot anyways, but he can’t help but hope for a show. It’s been a long while since there was anyone who could match him. He knows who will fall to the boy’s side, those in his army suffering from empathy. 

Wrath will win, he always has and always will, yet he can’t help but look forward to the day that punk comes to face him. For real this time, no useless shows of false power. It will be a bloody and brutal fight he can already tell. By the time the boy is bleeding at his feet if he even gets that far, Wrath will be proud of him. He’s gone so far already, anyone with weaker character would never have left their hometown. He chuckles slightly, Pride would hate to see him thinking such things. 

With all that ranting, he would make a wonderful pride, if not for one small caveat.

Someday there will be someone who has suffered enough. They will pull him limb from limb, or gut him as if he were a fish. He will lose eventually, he has to. A fight where he must use every trick and ounce of rage in him until it's all been bled dry. 

The fight that cuts him down will be a day to look forward to. The only question that remains is who will be his killer? A friendly smile dawns on his face, the only kind he’s capable of making. 

Finally, a great man he'll have the pleasure of meeting.


End file.
